


Make My Rockin' World Go Round

by ladyblahblah



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Body Worship, First Time, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, chubby!Stiles, minor body shaming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-07
Updated: 2013-05-07
Packaged: 2017-12-10 17:54:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/788486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyblahblah/pseuds/ladyblahblah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles comes home from college having packed on the Freshman Fifteen and then some, all rounded out and soft, and Derek absolutely <em>can’t keep his hands off of him</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Make My Rockin' World Go Round

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HalfFizzbin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HalfFizzbin/gifts).



> For the lovely Julie who convinced me to write this in the first place, and who is a genuinely wonderful person who deserves nothing but nice things. The title is, naturally, taken from "Fat Bottomed Girls", because when in doubt, quote Queen.
> 
> This is, essentially, an exercise in acceptance and self-love (not the dirty kind) (if you want to use it that way though you go ahead and rock your world), and is thus primarily focused on the parts of a heavier body that are frequently portrayed as shameful being, instead, a huge turn-on. If this doesn't appeal to you, I heartily encourage you to turn around and read something else; this is an incredibly personal and sensitive topic for me, and any attempted shaming will be met with extreme prejudice.
> 
> Though none occurs between Derek and Stiles, there are a few body-shaming comments dropped at the beginning of the story; if that is a concern, please proceed with caution.

 

“I always just sort of assumed I took after my dad, you know?” Stiles relaxes back into the couch cushions, at his ease in stark contrast with the way Scott and Isaac are both hunched forward over their controllers. “Guess I was wrong.”

 

“Aren't you always freaked about him eating red meat and saturated fats, though?” Isaac asks absently, leaning sharply to one side and cursing under his breath when Princess Peach veers off the road despite his best efforts.

 

“Yeah, because of his heart, asswipe.” Stiles shoves at Isaac's leg with his knee, completely unfazed by the growl that move earns him. “He could down a dozen double-bacon cheeseburgers every day and not gain an ounce, though. Stilinski metabolism; his whole side of the family is like that.”

 

“Too bad it skipped a generation or something.” Jackson sneers at him from the dining room table, leaning forward over the textbooks spread out in front of him. “Good look getting laid looking like that. Congratulations, your chances of scoring have now been reduced to less than zero.”

 

“Thank you for providing further evidence of the fact that you fail to grasp basic mathematical concepts and that you desperately need my help to get through your Calculus I class, Jackson,” Lydia reminds him sharply as Stiles flips him off over the back of the couch. “Help that I am providing out of the kindness of my heart, I might add; and if you don't start paying attention I'll start feeling _decidedly_ less kind.”

 

“Not to change the subject.” Derek tosses his book down in despair of ever getting through the chapter after all. “And not to belittle the way you're all choosing to spend your spring break, but why are you all doing this _here_?”

 

“Jackson said he wanted to study in a 'safe space',” Lydia says with a saccharine-sweet smile.

 

“I just didn't want anyone who _matters_ to see me being tutored,” he grumbles. “I have a reputation to maintain, okay?”

 

“No offense, dude,” Isaac snorts without taking his eyes off of the screen, “but no one in Beacon Hills gives a shit about your reputation one way or another.”

 

“And you three?” Derek asks, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice as Stiles stretches forward to grab his drink off of the coffee table. “Scott, Stiles, don't you have a million gaming consoles at _your own houses_?”

 

“You're the one who said your place is always open to pack,” Stiles protests. “Besides, Isaac's the only one with classic Mario Kart. At which I will be _schooling_ whichever one of these two proves slightly less pathetic than the other after this round is over.”

 

“How about you do yourself a favor and run around the block while you're waiting, Stilinski? Try to salvage the slim hope of anyone ever wanting to get in your pants,” Jackson says, and Lydia slams the textbook shut.

 

“That's it, I'm finished. It's called _focus_ , Jackson.” Her glare nearly makes Derek recoil, and it isn't even aimed at him. “If you decide you're capable of acting like an adult, you can call me.”

 

“Lydia—”

 

She holds up a hand. “I have better things to do than listen to you obsess over Stiles' sex life.”

 

Jackson just sits there, staring after her as she grabs her purse and storms through the door with a pointed toss of her hair. “What the hell did I say?”

 

“Jackson.” Derek lets authority seep into his voice, feeling Jackson and Isaac both come to attention. “Do you remember the conversation we had about minding your fucking manners?”

 

“Hey, don't sweat it.” Stiles has one thick arm hooked over the back of the couch, grinning in a way that makes his cheeks look even rounder. “I've gotten about a thousand times more play since I put this weight on than I ever did when I was skinny; I used to think that I couldn't possibly give less of a fuck if Jackson found me personally attractive, but it turns out I can.”

 

Derek picks up his book again as the boys continue to squabble amongst themselves, trying to refocus his attention. He doesn't need to hear the stories again, all of the lovingly-related details of the hookups that Stiles has enjoyed in his first semester and a half away at college. He hadn't needed to hear them the _first_ time; there are certain mental images that he'd just be better off without.

 

It had been hard enough before to deal with the constant temptation of Stiles's infuriating existence. The color of his eyes, the shape of his mouth, the length of his fingers—they all seemed specifically designed to test the limits of Derek's willpower. His loyalty and refusal to let Derek get away with any of the shit he'd tried to pull; his determination to be there for the people who needed him; the way he'd made Derek actually _like_ him; all of that he'd been able to resist. He'd kept his hands to himself, kept himself from dragging Stiles down to his level. But he'd always been aware that he was walking a thin and shaky line, and that it wouldn't take much to tip him over the edge.

 

In the end, it turned out that he wasn't tipped so much as _catapulted_.

 

In the emails and occasional texts that they'd exchanged over the semester, Stiles hadn't been shy about dropping jokes about the Freshman Fifteen and the weight he was putting on. More familiar with the whipcord lines of his body than he was comfortable admitting even to himself, Derek hadn't given much credence to the things he'd said; he'd seen Stiles eat what had to be his own body weight in pizza on more than two occasions, and it was difficult for him to believe that Stiles might be suddenly packing on the pounds. So he had no one to blame but himself, really, for the shock to his system that his first sight of Stiles in nearly seven months had provided.

 

If Derek had to guess, he'd say that “Freshman Fifteen” undershot things a little bit. Everything about Stiles is softer, thicker—the line of his jaw, the stretch of his limbs; there's a gentle curve to his stomach now, more flesh padding the jut of his ribs into a smooth arc. His hips and thighs are fuller, his ass broader and rounder.

 

Derek isn't going to survive.

 

His fingers tighten around the edges of his paperback, grounding him in the moment as they itch to reach out and touch, to feel the shape of that soft, full body beneath his hands. All of his well-reasoned considerations are still in effect, all the reasons he's told himself to keep his distance still every bit as valid as they've ever been. The fact that Stiles is now exactly the kind of temptation that he's never been able to resist is irrelevant; what matters is that there are only two days left until he leaves for school again, and all Derek has to do is make it until then.

 

“Screw this,” he hears Jackson say abruptly, and looks up to see him shoving his books into his backpack. “I'm gonna go find Lydia.”

 

“Good boy,” Stiles says absently, and Scott and Isaac's snickers nearly drown out Jackson's half-choked growl.

 

“Bite me, asshole,” he snaps, and slams the door behind him

 

“You'd think three years would—shit, what time is it?” Scott tugs abruptly at Stiles's wrist to get a look at his watch, making him curse and Isaac crow as Stiles's car shoots off the edge of Rainbow Road. “We're supposed to be meeting Allison and her friend at Harvey's in like ten minutes.”

 

“Crap.” Isaac nearly falls off the couch in his haste to get up. “I was gonna change, and . . . how do I look? Do I look okay?”

 

“You look great, man, don't worry. Stiles, you wanna come too?”

 

“As much as I love Harvey's pizza, I think I'll skip being the awkward blind date fifth wheel this time around,” Stiles says dryly. “Dude, calm down,” he adds when it looks like Isaac might be on the verge of hyperventilating. “You're not shipping off to war; she's just a girl.”

 

“That's what makes me nervous.” He scrubs his hands over his thighs. “I'm not great with girls. Historically speaking.”

 

“Just . . .” Stiles gestures with his controller, casting around the room for inspiration and lighting up when his eyes land on Derek. “Channel your alpha there. Swagger, man.” He reaches out to land a friendly swat on Isaac's hip. “You think Derek's scared to go after what he wants?”

 

Scott and Isaac both crack up at that, completely undeterred by Derek's pointed glare, and after a moment Stiles rolls his eyes.

 

“Okay, okay, fine. But I meant _romantically_.”

 

“Thanks, man.” Isaac's still chuckling, his breathing calmer than it was just a moment ago. “Way to break the tension.”

 

“Come on, we're gonna be late!” Scott all but pulls Isaac out the door, still snickering under his breath; Derek can hear him laughing all the way down the hall.

 

“What the hell is up with them?” Stiles stretches out, spreading his arms along the back of the newly-vacated couch. Derek tears his eyes away from the stretch of pale, soft-looking skin just visible where his t-shirt has ridden up, and sets his jaw.

 

“Don't you have somewhere else to be?” He can hear the edge in his own voice and doesn't bother to rein it in, not when Stiles is practically _sprawled_ across his couch, because there's only so much a man can be expected to take. “Somewhere not _here_?”

 

“Okay, what the fuck is with you?” Stiles leans forward, scowling. “Have I done something to offend you? Because frankly you've been acting like a total asshole since the day I got home.”

 

“You—” Derek meets his eyes with a scowl of his own. “No.”

 

“Then what the _actual fuck_? I mean, we weren't Miguel and Tulio or anything—”

 

“Who the hell is Tulio?”

 

“Oh my god, watch a movie,” Stiles snaps. “We were friends. Friend _ly_ at least. Before I left, we got along okay, didn't we? We even hung out a few times without the incentive of avoiding mortal peril. And over the past few months, I thought . . . I mean, we emailed, and texted, and I even called you that time I got freaked out walking back to my dorm at three in the morning.”

 

“I remember all this.”

 

“Okay, so you'll excuse me if I'd been under the impression that you could, like . . . stand to be around me! Which obviously you can't.” He finally stands up, shoving his hands in his pockets; Derek tries to ignore the way it draws his attention to the new convexity of his chest. “I'll just . . . I'll get out of your hair.”

 

For all of a handful of seconds, Derek wavers between relief that Stiles is leaving and the urge to apologize, feeling like the biggest ass in the history of the known world. Then he's on his feet, a step behind Stiles as he opens the door.

 

“Wait. Stiles.” He reaches out to place his palm flat against the door, relieved when Stiles doesn't try to stop it from shutting again. “I'm sorry.”

 

“You know, that's great.” Stiles turns and Derek backs up half a step so that he's not quite as close, so that his arm isn't nearly draped over Stiles's shoulder. “But I still deserve an answer.”

 

“An answer?” He smells _incredible_ , the same combination of salty skin and bodywash and sharp spice, but warmer now somehow; it's fucking distracting. “To what?”

 

“Why have you been acting like you're competing for the title of World's Biggest Douchebag title all week? If it isn't something that I did, then _what_?”

 

“It's just . . .” Derek bites out a sigh, gritting his teeth. “The truth is—”

 

“You know, you always start out that way when you're about to spew some bullshit, but don't even _think_ about lying to me. I swear to god Derek, I am in exactly the kind of mood to retaliate with deadly force right now.”

 

“You don't think that's a little bit of overkill?”

 

“You really think I give a shit?”

 

“I'm just having a little bit of trouble adjusting,” Derek hears himself saying, trying and failing to stop the words before he finishes, “to the way you look now.”

 

“The . . .” Stiles leans back against the door; collapses against it, more like, staring back at Derek. “Wow. Fuck you, you raging _asshole_.”

 

“No.” Derek's hand clenches into a fist. “That's not—”

 

“You know, I expect that kind of shit from Jackson, because he's long-reigning King of the Douches, and I've always sort of doubted that he's fully capable of things like empathy and human understanding. But I really thought that you—”

 

“Stiles, I _didn't—_ ”

 

“And it's not like I'm hard up for prospects, okay? I've had more people want to get in my pants in the last four months than in my entire life to that point _combined;_ all I need to do is make a phone call and I can—”

 

To say that kissing Stiles just then is a stupid idea would be an understatement of near-epic proportions. To say that it was precisely an _idea_ , however, would also be giving Derek a good deal more credit than he deserves. He doesn't make a conscious decision, doesn't clearly remember moving at all. His mouth is just suddenly fitted over Stiles's, his hands cupped around the gentle curve of his jaw. Their chests brush together, and it takes everything Derek has not to press forward, to feel the give of Stiles's body between him and the door. Stiles isn't pushing him away, but he's not exactly reciprocating either, and after a moment Derek makes himself pull back.

 

“Could you stop,” he finally manages through unsteady breaths, “reminding me how many other people you've had touching you? I can't . . .” He closes his eyes and makes himself pull his hands away from Stiles's face. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—”

 

“Two,” Stiles blurts out. He's staring wide-eyed at Derek, fingers curling in the front of his shirt and stopping him from retreating farther. “Three, if you count fifteen minutes of drunken makeouts at a party after midterms. I mean, that's still technically, like, a hundred and fifty percent increase from high school, but mostly I just wanted to shut Jackson up and _you kissed me_.”

 

“I.” Derek's voice seems to be deserting him. “You noticed.”

 

Stiles laughs, leaning his head back against the door. Derek can't help the way his eyes drop to the column of Stiles's neck, and when he looks up again Stiles is watching him with a raised-brow look that says he knows _exactly_ where Derek was looking.

 

“Is this just because of the way I look now?” he asks quietly. “I'm not saying that's a dealbreaker or anything, but I'd like to know if this is just . . .” He heaves out a breath. “I am so, _so_ far from your usual type. Always was, even before this.”

 

“I don't know if you've noticed.” Derek dares to inch closer, to duck his head just enough to take a long, lingering hint of Stiles's scent. “But my social circle here in Beacon Hills is kind of limited.”

 

“So what, you'd be all up on dudes with a little bit extra if there were just more of them around?”

 

“If they were people I trusted. People I liked.” He shakes his head. “I wanted you already, I just . . . god, Stiles, you look _so fucking sexy_ like this.”

 

“So you just couldn't resist anymore?”

 

“I . . . yeah.”

 

“And you kissed me.”

 

Derek sighs. “Yeah.”

 

“Okay. You gonna do it again?”

 

“Am I—”

 

“Look, just stop trying to talk yourself out of this and— _argh_ ,” Stiles groans in frustration, and lunges forward to send his lips crashing into Derek's.

 

“ _God_.”

 

Every single one of Derek's extremely well-considered arguments for not doing _exactly this_ flies out of his head the second he feels Stiles pressed up against him, strong and insistent and _lush_. His hands streak down Stiles's back to cup the curve of his ass, squeezing through his jeans and letting out a helpless, broken sound at the way it moulds to his touch. He reaches farther, curling his hands around the backs of Stiles's thighs and lifting him easily off of his feet. They're back against the door an instant later, Stiles's legs wrapped around his waist as Derek buries his face in his neck and tries to stop kissing him long enough to breathe.

 

“We should take this slow.” His lips find Stiles's pulse, hammering beneath the skin, and part to suck a bruise to livid life. “Slower.”

 

“Fuck that.” Stiles's fingers stroke into his hair and fist there, tugging his head up to suck and bite at his lower lip. “You're the single hottest person who's ever been interested in me, this is going the fucking distance.”

 

Derek doesn't even bother to hide his smirk. “Hotter than any of your new college friends, even?”

 

“Ugh, _yes_ , okay? The hottest person _ever_. Though I'll admit,” he says, struggling impatiently with his shirt, “I might be slightly biased by the crush I've had on you for pretty much forever.”

 

“You used to hate me.”

 

“I did not!”  
  


“You were going to leave me for _dead_ once.”

 

“I wasn't . . . probably going to do that. Anyway, I'm complicated, okay?” Stiles finally gets his shirt off and throws it triumphantly across the room. “Hah! Anyway, Ihhhnnnnnggghhhokay,” he breathes out as Derek dips down, nuzzling and nipping at his chest. “I want. _Ah_. Bed?”

 

“Couch.” Derek leans up to kiss him again, letting one hand streak up to feel the soft flesh at Stiles's sides. “Closer.”

 

“Yeah, good, closer. Closer's good.”

 

The extra weight on Stiles's frame is negligible when Derek pulls him upright again, though his knees nearly buckle when Stiles's arms drape over his shoulders so that he can lean in to suck on Derek's ear. They fall onto the couch in a messy, undignified tangle, with Stiles still straddling him as he muffles laughter against Derek's throat.

 

“You are _really_ gone on me, aren't you?”

 

“Mmm.” Derek levers himself up enough to mouth at the fold of flesh over Stiles's stomach where he's bent over him, dipping his tongue into the crease there as his hands squeeze rhythmically at Stiles's hips. “What?”

 

“Nothing. Just . . .” Stiles sounds breathless, and Derek smiles against his skin. “Get your shirt off.”

 

Derek doesn't need telling twice, not when Stiles is half-naked and on top of him, hard where he's grinding down in absentminded little circles against Derek's hips. He's probably not much more efficient or graceful about undressing than Stiles was; his hands feel uncoordinated when they're not on Stiles's body, his limbs protesting the necessary distance between them. When he manages to wrestle free of the thing he sends it winging after Stiles's and immediately tugs him down, groaning deep in his throat when their bare chests meet.

 

“You feel so fucking good,” Stiles rasps out, rubbing shamelessly against him and stroking his hands down Derek's sides, pulling his earlobe between his teeth. Derek slides his hands down the back of Stiles's jeans to grab handfuls of his ass again, guiding the motion of his hips.

 

“You have _no idea_.” He wants to stay like this forever, drugged with kisses and the weight of Stiles's body on top of him. He licks a long stripe up the side of his neck. “Is it going to freak you out if I mention how good you taste?”

 

Stiles snickers. “Not if you're willing to follow through with putting your mouth somewhere a little more interesting.”

 

For just a moment, Derek freezes. Then he's surging up, capturing Stiles's lips again in a messy, unfocused kiss as he rearranges them.

 

“Yeah,” he breathes against his mouth, hands already scrabbling at Stiles's belt. The coffee table is in the way and he kicks out at it, sending it skidding halfway across the living room. “Yeah, yes, okay.”

 

“Oh my _god_.” Stiles's breath is barely a croak as he reaches down to help. “I wish I'd thought to set up a video camera, you are _so fucking hot_ right now.”

 

“Don't give me ideas,” Derek breathes out, and starts to tug Stiles's jeans down as he trails a line of wet, open-mouthed kisses down to his stomach.

 

He can't get enough of this, of the gentle give of Stiles's body beneath his hands and mouth. The roundness of his stomach, the extra flesh padding out his hips; it's taking all of Derek's willpower to keep from staying there on his knees all night, testing the feel of it, learning the shape that the bruises he sucks into the skin will take. But when he slides Stiles's underwear off his cock is hard and leaking, pulsing gently with his heartbeat, and Derek needs his mouth on it more than he's ever needed anything before.

 

The sound that Stiles makes at the first swipe of Derek's tongue is almost more than he can take, and as much as he wants to draw this out, to make it _last_ , he doesn't think that either of them have that in them just now. He wraps his lips around the head and sucks, dizzy at the taste of precum salty, sweet, and sharp against his tongue. The scent of Stiles is so strong here, intoxicating and delicious. Derek dips down slowly, slowly, savoring Stiles thick and heavy in his mouth as fingers tangle desperately in his hair. He moans softly, then deeper when Stiles's hips arch helplessly up to thrust into his mouth.

 

It doesn't take much encouragement after that—his hands sliding beneath Stiles's ass, tugging until he moves again—before Stiles is helping him along, guiding Derek's head gently where he wants it as he works up in shallow little thrusts. Left free, Derek's hands move to the fleshy softness of Stiles's inner thighs, squeezing and kneading, bearing down harder in time with a swirl of his tongue and a hard, hollow-cheeked suck that has Stiles calling out his name.

 

Not long enough; not _nearly_ long enough when Derek wants to lose himself in the taste and scent and feel of Stiles forever, but his own cock is aching, trapped inside his jeans and leaking so much that he can feel the wet patch spreading to his thigh. He reaches one hand down, fumbling with button and zipper until he can pull himself out, take himself in a grip that's just shy of painful. The moan he lets out is deep and helpless this time as he clings to Stiles's leg and works himself in quick, hard tugs. Stiles's fingers tighten in his hair and his hips thrust up sharply once, twice, before he's spilling hot and sudden over Derek's tongue; when Derek follows him a few seconds later he feels like a teenager, hand wet and sticky as he buries his face in the crease between Stiles's hip and thigh.

 

“Up,” Stiles croaks out a few moments later, tugging gently at Derek's hair, letting go to wrap a hand around the back of his neck. “Get up here.”

 

Derek's limbs feel weak and uncooperative, but he manages to wipe his hand on the closest discarded shirt and clamber up onto the couch, bearing Stiles down to stretch out beneath them. They're both wet and sticky, and Derek's jeans are still clinging tenaciously to his hips, but Stiles feels as good underneath him as he had on top of him, and Derek doesn't feel at all inclined to move for anything short of mortal peril.

 

“Y're heavy,” Stiles says, muffled against Derek's shoulder.

 

“Yeah.” Derek sighs, starts to reluctantly shift aside. “I can—”

 

“Don't you fucking dare. Like it.”

 

“Oh. Okay.” Derek relaxes again, burrowing shamelessly deeper into Stiles's arms. “Good.”

 

“So, uh.” Stiles's hands pause for a moment where they're stroking lazily over Derek's back. “Not that I'm complaining, exactly, but I was sort of hoping I'd get to do some dirty-touching of my own.”

 

“Mmm.” He's fighting sleep, unwilling to miss out on feeling Stiles soft and pliant and sated beneath him, and equally unwilling to let Isaac walk in on them like this whenever he finally gets home. “Next time's all you, then.”

 

Stiles squirms a little bit, as best he can with Derek's weight pinning him down. “Yeah?”

 

Derek leans up just enough to look at him. “Unless you have something better to do for the rest of your break?”

 

“Not even a little bit, I can not _possibly_ express how much I do not have anything better to do than have marathon sex with you. Shower first, though,” he says, slapping Derek's ass and grinning wickedly up at him. “I've got plans for you now, buddy.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you'd like to see these ideas as they occur to me, as well as further discussion of body acceptance issues, fandom flailing, and an assortment of shiny things that catch my attention, please feel free to follow me [on Tumblr](http://hungrylikethewolfie.tumblr.com).


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